


Pie

by Kass



Category: due South
Genre: DS_Flashfiction, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the recipe challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pie

When you're newly divorced, Thanksgiving sucks.

All you can think about is, this time last year we were still married. This time last year I still thought we might have kids someday at our holiday table. At least, that's all you can think about if you're me and you're about to hit your first Thanksgiving as a single man.

Every time I picture sitting down with my folks alone, just the three of us, I want to go to the gym and beat the crap out of some poor defenseless punching bag. For about nine hours.

Ma hinted I should bring a guest, a "special friend," but the closest I've got to a special friend is Fraser, and damn but I am not going there, because that is Not a Good Idea.

Seems like all anybody can talk about is Thanksgiving, and every time I hear it, I get more depressed. I'm miserable and I'm touchy and I'm bitter, and I figure there's no prayer of life improving until at least after Christmas.

And then Fraser shows up at the PD late on Tuesday night. Hat in hand, all bright and cheery, Dief at his side. He asks how I'm doing, and I practically bite his head off.

He kind of deflates. And so does the wolf: lies right down on the tile and puts his head on his paw.

And just like that, my anger at the world evaporates.

"Shit, Fraser, I'm sorry. I'm just...Thanksgiving's gonna be lonely."

He nods, still looking down. "Yes, I can imagine."

I'm about to ask what he's doing for the holiday, but suddenly I realize the answer: probably nothing. "Man. Do you even get the day off?"

"Well, as you know, Ray, Canadian Thanksgiving was last month. I have no shortage of vacation days, but haven't put in for any, inasmuch as I have no reason to be away from my desk."

"You could come with me," I say, before I have time to think about why I shouldn't say it. Like: my folks are crazy. Like: they might get the wrong idea. Like: he might get the wrong idea. Or the right one. I'm not sure.

Fraser lights right up. "Thank you kindly! I'd be delighted."

His smile makes my spine tingle. To hide that, I start backpedaling as fast as I can. "I mean, it's just my parents -- they're kind of a pain, you know, and it's just us, so it's not like, I don't know if you ever went to the Vecchio's, there's probably a zillion people there, and a lot of good food, and I don't know if you'd have a good time--"

"I can bring something," he says, and I can see he's already running through recipes in his mind.

"Nothing weird," I tell him.

"It's dinnertime, Ray. Let's go get some food."

I'm standing up, pulling on my shoulder holster and my jacket, turning off my desk light, when he pipes up, "How about Greek?"

"For Thanksgiving?"

"For dinner."

"Works for me."

Dief barks, probably agreeing, and we head out the door.

"Nothing weird for Thanksgiving," I tell him again. "My parents are kind of traditional." We're walking down the street to the Greek place Vecchio introduced him to.

"So no seal-fat ice cream," he muses.

"Fraser!"

"Or walrus-intestine soup," and he sounds almost sad again, "I know a lovely recipe, but I don't suppose--"

"I am warning you--" I catch a glimpse of his reflection in a store window and he's on the verge of laughing, and it makes me smile too.

"Oh, fine, bring whatever you want."

"I was thinking of apple pie, actually."

"Can Canadians make that?"

"The popular phrase notwithstanding, I assure you there's nothing exclusively American about apple pie, Ray." He sounds stern but I can tell he's faking it.

I like that he knows when I'm just giving him shit for the fun of giving him shit.

And then we're at the restaurant, and Dief's curling up on the curb outside the door and Fraser's holding the door open for a party of eleven because that's just the way he is. And I realize, weird as it's gonna be, I'm not dreading Thanksgiving quite so much anymore.


End file.
